One night, just shy of last call at the local bars, there was a knock at my front door. Home alone, on the phone with Mike, I made my way downstairs to find Andy; waiting patiently on my door step.

Andy. He was a gorgeous, down home, laid back beautiful East Coaster with a slight drawl. Muscles. Oh, the muscles. Tanned, taught and pretty much perfection. He and I had dated shortly and in spurts. Okay, so they were booty calls. But they were great booty calls. Prior to him even noticing me, I had spent many of my afternoons admiring him from afar in our campus pub. His bohemian style suited him to a tee; his wildly flowing shoulder length hair tucked beneath a ball cap, Birkenstock sandals and a patchwork Grateful Dead fleece jacket.

When we first met, I was smitten. Over the moon in lust. He was absolutely stunning, and better yet, wanted me as badly as I wanted him. Or so it seemed, because after a few nights I found out just how much he was still in love with his ex-girlfriend. Like so madly in love with her, his room was still plastered with pictures of them, portraits of her and a lifetime of memories. It was evident I was the rebound, and as much as it hurt, it took just as long to fall out of lust as it did to fall in.

Summer break came; I professed to anyone who would listen that I was over Andy. Out of sight out of mind is a magical, magical thing. Mike and I began dating and before long That Night arrived. That night, the first day he was back in town from his summer back down east, Andy showed up on my doorstep.

More shocked than anything, I quickly told Mike I had to go and that Andy was there. Probably a bad move on my part seeing as Mike knew our history and I just informed him that my ‘fling’ had shown up in the middle of the night while he was on the other side of the country.

We sat and talked for what seemed like hours. Sitting perpendicular to each other, he look my hand and guided me to his lap where I sat as he asked about my summer; we talked about his and then he slowly took my face in his hands and tried to kiss me. I willed myself to back away. I fought so hard to remain faithful to Mike and not let Andy get to me. God, I wanted to. I wanted to be with him again so badly, but his valiant effort would not sway me. Not this time. He took heed as I stood up and offered him a ride home.

As we pulled up to his house, he apologized for treating me the way he had before leaving to go back home. He said he felt horrible for leading me to believe that he was over his past relationship, but he was now and wanted another chance. I remember wondering if I could get away with being with him one last time. After all, I was engaged to Mike, making him likely, the last man I would be with. Surely he would understand that I needed that one last opportunity of freedom…..

I quickly said good night and reminded Andy that he had his chance – WE had our chance and it just didn’t work out.

After that night there were no more attempts. There was little effort to even make conversation, and eventually got to the point where we no longer spoke at all.

I still wonder sometimes what would have happened had I gave in. I doubt things would have ever gone past those remaining few months of college before we went our separate ways anyway. Everything I have now would probably have vanished into thin air had I let Andy kiss me. Sometimes? I get lost in the daydreams of what could have been, but, good day or not, I really can’t begin to fathom my life any other way.

:::

This post is part of the Silicon Valley Moms Blog Book Club. January’s second book was Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky by Chris Greenhalgh. Igor, a married man and father of four, finds himself in a precarious situation as he takes up Coco’s offer of her summer house. His family, as well as Coco, live in this home for a few months and while his wife falls ill, Igor find himself tempted by Coco Chanel.

• Eighteen and counting
• If Only…
• Clinging

When I’m feeling overly sensitive (sometimes) and utterly emo (always) I wonder if maybe people think because I am younger my opinions don’t matter or they feel I have nothing to offer to a conversation because my life experiences are assumed to be less than comparable to theirs. I, the completely irrational person I am,  don’t realize that: a) many are likely oblivious to my age and just assume I am older. (Yes, I obviously have an issue with self-esteem. I know this.) or b) they really don’t give a shit about me or my age in the first place. But they should care! Why don’t they care!? No one likes me! WAAAAAAAH! Also? See item a), parentheses 1.

So I’m a little lot self conscious and care far too much what people think of me. I’m working on it. As I have been my entire life.

And as self conscious as I get for being the youngest in the group, I also think, Wait a minute, why are you so shocked that I’m “only” 28? Do I look older? OMG, I LOOK OLD!

It’s really a vicious circle.

Then last week? That circle? It came to a crashing, back breaking halt. Straight into a brick wall of OLD.

In my defense, I spent majority of the week sleeping off some stomach bug I got from the kids. I showered and went to work on the Friday but with little make-up and my hair pinned back: low maintenance. I had to go to our sister company to pick up some project related paper work and while I was there I was chatting with a few of of my former co-workers, one of the guys, whom I used to joke around with a lot, commented, “Holy Sam! Look at you! You look… like a MOM.”

I LOOK LIKE A MOM!?

A MOM?!

Does Mom equal OLD?!

Because I’M NOT OLD!!

One of the ladies turned to face him and informed him “that wasn’t very nice” , while I, in my true colourful form told him he was “such a douchebag.” I wasn’t offended per say, I don’t really offend all that easy, but as I thought about it over the weekend I couldn’t quite pin point what about that comment irked me so much. It’s not like it was a lie, I am a mom. A mom to two beautiful, wonderful little boys. I am a parent. I love having children.

The thought of looking like a mom has me visualizing Mom Jeans, plaid shirts and Keds. I think of women losing their (our) self image and conforming to this uniform and lifestyle that strictly revolves around the children. I think of unkempt hair swept back in pony tails, no make-up and stained clothes. Immediately I felt shame wash over me. Have I fallen so far down the rabbit hole that I give the indication I no longer care about my outward appearance? OMG, I’M A MOM!!!

Yet, I’ve worn that uniform, and I know that’s not a mom. I KNOW. It just happens to be easy and comfortable and realistic most of the time, but it’s not a mom. No outfit, be it from a discount chain store or a high end boutique, makes a mom. A mom is that woman who plays; gets down on the floor with trucks, barbies or what have you.  She takes them to playdates, swimming lessons, doctors appointments and soccer games. A mom makes lunches, dinners, draws a bath a scrubs the dirt and grim from their little fingers. A mom comforts and soothes, loves and adores. Being a mom is NOTHING to be ashamed of, no matter if she works outside the home or in it.

I? Am a mom.

I? Am not ashamed.

I? Am, however, updating my wardrobe.

• Failed
• I Just Want to be Heard
• Hierarchy of Suckage*

I dream of a finished office space, white furniture with wall-to-wall white shelving filled with my books and my magazines. I dream of pristine walls with a slight hint of turquoise. I dream of a wide open window with lightweight sheers and a white orchid sitting on the sill. I see myself sitting at a glass top desk, lightly tapping out my mediocrity for all of the Internet.

In my head, that space will make it all better. That space will bring me back to the spot where I want to write again. In that space I will work, providing others with their lovely writing spaces while I will begin to remember what it was like when I would write something I was proud of. Something. Anything.

But that space won’t relieve my mental block. That space won’t be a reality for a long, long while – if ever. That space, this space, seems to have met it’s end. Or at least it feels that way.

It’s been months since I’ve been able to write something that others can connect with. The more I read, the more I realize that the need to be really good at what you do is ever more prevalent. As parent blogging changes and morphs rapidly into blogging for marketing and sponsorship, those whom used to write personally are converting and only the strong remain unwavering.

I am wavering. I have no desire to chase sponsorships no matter how much I’d love to be at the next *it* conference. Yet like others, I want to be noticed, adored and READ. (If you’re a blogger and say you don’t care about those things, you’re lying to us and worst of all – yourself. No one puts themselves out on a public stage just because.) But I have long since passed the stage of promoting this site. There is no more clicking around traffic building sites or adding my site to all the “communities”. I don’t work on improving my SEO (search engine optimization), nor do I care how you found my blog.

This blog is now dying. Actually, I believe it’s been dead for a while.

I am no longer – what I believe to have been – a member of the blogging community. There is very little community. It’s a shark tank full of people looking to make a quick buck and get stuff and if you happen to step on some toes to do it? So be it. There are some great people whom I’ve kept in contact with, but for the most part, my blog reader and twitter feed has transcended into white noise. There are fewer voices with a message; there are even less with ones I want to hear. That’s not to say that your writing is falling on deaf ears, rather that it’s just getting hard to discern the heartfelt writing. With FTC regulations, disclosure statements and disclaimers on satirical writing, it just seems so contrived and fake, even though the intention is quite the opposite.

Transparency is a fickle bitch.

As much as we’re transparent about what we’re writing and saying online, it’s behind the scenes where we are the most clouded,  contrary and unethical. Talking about people, their actions, their writing, their reviews, their “free gifts”, their sell-out attitudes. I see no disclaimers on the hateful statements spewed back and forth, no transparency in the relationships we are pretending to have.

I am no different.

I’ve sat back and watched for months as I fought my own internal battle of facing the truth. I’ve sat back and debated whether or not I owe you, readers and friends, a statement regarding things that have happened behind the scenes. You know, in the name of transparency. Am I being dishonest with you by not speaking out? Am I making myself appear guilty by allowing those who have spoken out – albeit inaccurately – on my behalf? Because every. single. fucking. time. I take to this keyboard, I stall. I am paralyzed by thoughts of people thinking that everything I write from here on out is a fucking lie because of something they’ve heard elsewhere. I think about the links and the emails flying back and forth saying, Did you see what she wrote now? I can’t believe she said that. What a fuckin’ liar. She is dead to me. After all this and she has the nerve.. Why does she even bother?

Dearest friends have said to let it go. My wonderful and loyal friends have said it nothing to worry about and that I acted out of good faith and love. My good friends, the people THAT KNOW ME are right.

But what about the others? The ones that I concern myself with when they really have shown they deserve little of my time. Why? Why do I give even an iota of shit for what they think?

Because I am human.

I am just like you: I want acceptance, I want love, I want people to care about me too. I want forgiveness, friendship and relationships. Because I am human.

Without transparency I feel I am stifling myself. I can write here over and over that I don’t care what you think and that it’s time to move on, but the truth is I do care, and I can’t move on – because EVERY. FUCKING. TIME. I open this computer I think about the people who have (may have) heard something and are taking it verbatim. I think about the fact that no one has even ASKED my side. People I thought were friends have taken what they’ve heard as gospel and haven’t even given me a chance. It angers me, it hurts me and it’s not fair.

But it’s not only about me and my perceived conflicts. There are people who I KNOW have been talking shit about some people I care deeply for and then they are playing nice to their faces and telling them they have their backs when they definitely do not. I know they say they are friends and “would do anything for them”  and then have been calling them hurtful and hateful things behind their backs. You forget, my friends, the internet is very much like high school. Things are said and they DO get back to the people you’re talking about; even if you’re calling someone a “crazy bitch” in jest, it may not be perceived that way in some conversations.

I think we owe it to ourselves – as compassionate, responsible and caring adults to just cut the shit. If you don’t like someone or something they’ve said, so be it. Deal with it. Move on. But the name calling? The hurtful and evil comments about people you *think* you know are really getting us nowhere. Because at the end of the day, has it made your life *that* much better by saying such evil things about someone else? No. Does letting someone know “for their benefit” that a friend of theirs has wronged someone else? No. Because no matter what you say, they will continue to make their own decisions in life and your hurtful words of “concern” and “support” are only going to make you look like that fickle bitch, Transparency.

• Junk
• Disconnected
• Why friends probably shouldn’t work together (Read: Shit, we really need an accountant)

And it rested.

After a grueling week of 5 am – 12am days, a weekend of two sick children, and transferring to websites to new hosting and installing another, my body crashed.

For 37 hours of sleep.

One thing is blatantly obvious. I need some balance in my life. Where to find it is another question.

:::

Mike started working with a new company back in September. This one feels, to him, like it’s The One. More of a career than a job, which is fantastic. I am elated that he no longer comes home each day bitching about how much he hates his work.

That is, of course, when he’s working.

This company purposefully takes a month off at Christmas time; they hand out pink slips and a bottle of booze for a Christmas gift, I shit you not. From mid- December to end of January the guys are home. And if they’re like my husband and don’t see a reason to file for unemployment because they’re only going to be home for a month, they’re making no money. Brilliant if you ask me. Why? Because well, THE BILLS DON’T STOP COMING IN JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT WORKING.

Ahem.

Also? Mike is the bread winner. Even though I am working the equivalent of two full time jobs, his salary still far exceeds what I can bring home. Yet we’re trying to manage on mine because HE DIDN’T SEE THE NEED TO FILE FOR UNEMPLOYMENT.

I’ve been too busy to notice that this month is flying by and we’re likely going to hit financial rock bottom before he gets back to work. I haven’t been on top of our finances until yesterday when I had to move money from overdraft to make sure our mortgage payment didn’t bounce. I took that opportunity to show Mike the bright red numbers staring back from the stark white screen and only then did he realize the severity of our financial woes.

What did he do this morning? Filed for unemployment. Guess it’s better late than never, right?

So now, I am fighting every urge to keep my mouth shut, because all I really want to say is, I TOLD YOU SO!

But that never ends well.

• Love, Elsewhere
• Junk
• 2009, You Frigid Bitch.

I think it’s more the waiting part that turns me off cooking rather than the actual mixing, working and creating. I am very much the type of person who needs immediate results in order to be satisfied.

Cooking does nothing for me.

Once and a while I will bake. I love making chocolate chip cookies mainly because I eat more of the batter than I do the cookies. See? Immediate results.  I’ve been known to slave over a few lemon meringue pies in my time, even some easy peasy cherry cheese cake type concoction I learned from my Gramma. Once again, all quick, all easy all requiring little to no actual baking.

Since having children I have taken a little more pride in cooking and baking. I’ve learned a few more recipes, I’ve actually made macaroni and cheese from scratch (THANK YOU PIONEER WOMAN!) and even indulged in bring baked goods to work. To feed my co-workers. To share. To proclaim to outsiders that I am indeed capable of making food stuffs save enough to eat!

Carter announced to me earlier this year that he LOVES pumpkin pie. LOVES. Because the lady at the daycare – The Cooker, The Daycare Lunch Lady, The Chef, or as I like to call her: The Procurer of Food for The Little People – makes a mean pumpkin pie.

So, for Thankgiving, I thought I’d spoil the little ankle biter and make him his own pumpkin pie. After all, what child could turn down a pumpkin pie made by their caring, doting and wonderful mother? Right?

I’ll spare you the disaster details of the actual pie making as they are irrelevant. But the kid got a pie. A pretty damn good pie if I do say so myself.

As we sat down to indulge in the delicious pumpkin-y goodness with a dollop of Cool Whip I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Carter’s little four year old face scrunch up in disgust. I played it off as nothing as I dove into the creamy goodness of my pumpkin filling.

The kids wasn’t eating anything. Not even a lick of the Cool Whip. I kinda suspected what may be coming, but I asked anyway.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” I asked.

“This pie tastes like junk,” he said matter-of-factly, “and not the good junk either.”

Seriously? Are you SERIOUS, you little jerk? After I slaved over that pie for you. I measured. I mixed. I baked. I WAITED!!!  And you call my pie JUNK!?I am NEVER. BAKING. AGAIN!!

But instead of letting him know how royally pissed I was that he dismissed my pie so coldly, I did what any parent would do in that situation.

I excused that ungrateful little shit loving and brutally honest child from the table and scarfed down his pie too.

:::

This post in brought to you by the Silicon Valley Moms Book Club. This month’s book is See Mom Run: Side-Splitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Moms by Beth Feldman. The book is a culmination of short essays written by a number of very talented blogger who also just happen to be moms (including two short stories from one of my favourite writers, Liz Gumbinner of Mom 101). It’s witty, hilarious and ALL TRUE. Read it!

For the FTC blah-blah-CRAP: I was given this book for free and asked to write a post inspired by the book, not a review. Also? Suckit.

• Eighteen and counting
• Disconnected
• Love, Elsewhere

So I said I wasn’t going to write about it, and I’m writing about it. Sue me.

2009 brought so much heart ache to friends and family. 2009 really had nothing all that wonderful to offer personally, professionally, for friends, for family, for the world’s economic condition for that matter. Really? I don’t give a shit, I’m just glad it’s gone.

For me, 2009 meant loss of a beloved family member, and finding others again. It meant finally meeting friends, yet losing some along the way. It made me face one of my greatest fears: trying to figure out if my child was a victim of abuse at the hands of someone we trusted to care from him daily. 2009 brought more pink slips than one would care to shake a stick at.

(Thankfully Mike has been with the same company for about four months now. Not including, of course, the ENTIRE MONTH OF JANUARY BEING A VACATION. Seriously, the company shuts down for a month around Christmas. They give out a bottle of booze and a pink slip at Christmas so the guys can collect unemployment while they get their drink on in January.)

This past year meant I returned to work from a year long maternity leave only to be thrown into a work share program (part time hours instead of laying off staff). Since returning to work I’ve also dealt with my depression rear it’s ugly head again as I struggled to manage my work and home life. It meant turning on my friends and spewing hurtful mean things across The Internets (which I won’t be linking to, sorry) as a means of deflecting the anger onto others instead of where it belonged: on the path of which my life has taken.

I have been a shitty friend.

I have unintentionally hurt people in my life – that I would otherwise have done anything for – because I would not face my own demons. I have lost some of those I thought were close to me and would understand the most. They didn’t and I was wrong to expect that they would be there after the dust settled. I was wrong to expect so much of them.

The only great thing to come of 2009 was the fact that I’ve made it through relatively unscathed. The damage has been done and, for the most part, I’ve made it out on the other side. There are still fences to mend and rebuilding to be done, but aside from that I am certain 2010 will be a better year for us all.

I’m going on another break. I’ve blogged twice in two weeks. That’s enough for another month off, no?

Seriously though? My dear friend, Issa says I take more breaks than Ross and Rachel on Friends.

She’s right you know.

There’s been stuff behind the scenes that have kept me from wanting to write. I tried forever to get passed the mental block by writing it out; by posting (more of) my dirty laundry, to clear the air – give my side of the story. But then I was uncomfortable with airing everything for the world tens of people to read. Not because I felt guilty, but because it’s painful and personal. It’s not something I want to have The Bots shredding up and sharing.

I decided against posting about it, and even though it still eats at me daily hourly, I refuse to write about it openly. Those that were involved know where my heart was (and is). Those that have made it their business to share a one-sided speculative version of what happened are free to believe what they like.

I wanna leave that shit in 2009.

Whoever wants to carry it along with them is free to do so – just stay the fuck off my lawn.

And now that we’ve got that bullshit out of the way, Happy New Year!!

Here’s to a happy and healthy 2010.

Maybe even a couple more consecutive posts under my belt again?

• Love, Elsewhere
• Run Down
• Junk

I am notorious for updating my status for a day and then leaving it sit for weeks or months on end. Every time I load and refresh that website, I get nostalgic seeing the people I was friends with all those years ago. People who, at the time, were my world. People whom I spent hours upon hours with each and every day for the better part of my formative years. Those that had a significant part in molding me into the person I have become.

The only way I have kept in touch with those people has been through a volatile website which has come under fire for sharing and using our data to their advantage. Not very promising, is it? And it’s not even that I’ve managed to keep in touch with anyone through that website, but instead have managed to creep on their pages, view their photos, and for fear of being too overzealous, I comment sparingly on events in their lives. A few seemingly heartfelt congratulatory messages when someone posts photos of their nuptials or a birth of a baby. Not very personable, is it?

Last night I spent hours looking through photos belonging to those who were a huge part of my life so many years ago. Some of them barely even recognizable, after all, ten years in a long time – especially during the transition from adolescence to adulthood. Had their names or vital information not been included in their profiles, I am almost certain I would not have known it was my long lost friend had we passed on the street. That breaks my heart; the fact that these people, once so very important to me, have become strangers save the history we share.

Facebook has become the bane of my existence. I crave the ability to check and see that a former lover has married, a former best friend still remains that flighty lovable person I remember. That one of my (many) high school crush(es) is still as adorable as ever. What saddens me is seeing those whom have remained friends after all these years and I have been absolutely horrible at keeping in touch. All those relationships which have grown and changed over the years no longer include me. Most of that is my fault. As years have gone by I have become more and more reclusive. I’ve avoided reunions and gatherings. I almost never go back to my hometown to see friends who still live there. They’ve been asking me to come visit and for some reason, I just don’t. Though I long to have even a minute portion of my past life back, I make no effort to make it happen.

I found out a couple months ago that my high school is to be demolished. Years have been unkind to the old building. Its population has decreased to the point it makes more sense for such a small town to amalgamate all the schools into a simple K – 12 school and rid The Board of these older dilapidated structures which are unkempt and underused.

I’ve thought long and hard about trying to host a final class reunion in our old school gym; something along the lines of a 1995 Dance Party. As much as I’d love to do something I’m just not the planner type person. I have no idea where to start or how to even initiate something of that magnitude. Instead, I fear I will sit back and watch as the old high school is demolished and wish I had done something.

Similar to what I have been doing over the past ten years: watching from the sidelines as old relationships slip further and further into the past.

• Becoming a woman
• Love, Elsewhere
• Run Down

Every. Single. Mother. Effing. Year. I say I will start Christimas shopping in the summer. I will buy that *perfect* gift as soon as I see it and not rely on my memory to tell me what it was I was thinking of getting 6 months after I’ve seen it in the store.

Every year, I wait.

Every year it is 5 days before Christmas and I haven’t completed even half of my shopping.

This year? It’s a little more stressful seeing as we are hosting. SIXTEEN family members are embarking on our new-to-us home which is still stuck in the mid-80’s and furniture-less. For me, (since Mike’s the chef and I don’t have to worry about the turkey at all. It just magical appears on my plate.) it’s the fact that we have no furniture.

I kid you not.

Our living room is empty save the boxes which have yet to be unpacked since we moved here back in July.

My parents joke that we’ll be eating dinner sitting on the boxes, but little do they know, until Saturday morning, that was a very likely scenario.

See? PROCRASTINATION.

Did I mention there will be sixteen people at my house? Ya. And we bought a dining room table this weekend. 7 DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

I seem to be a gluten for punishment.

I have yet to decide on a menu, I haven’t purchased any table decorations. We only just finished buying our tree and decorating this evening.

The whole time decorating the tree, the boys were running around, throwing decorations and crying because one had stolen from the other. Mike was sitting there watching it all go down while I tried to wrangle two overtired children suffering from cabin fever. I didn’t even enjoy the fact that we were preparing for the holidays, but instead was cursing myself for being a damn moron and doing this to myself, yet again. When will I ever learn there’s a better way to do this? Clearly my lackluster approach to last minute preparation is not the anti-stress, holiday friendly way.

This week will the a disaster of buying gifts, wrapping, cooking, baking, organizing and decorating – after I get home from work. Oh, and a trip to the mall to see The Jolly Fat Man. Ya. Still haven’t done that either!

But don’t worry about me. I am totally going to start getting ready for next season come July. Promise.

• Found: The Meaning of Family
• The Lay Off: From the Beginning

Needless to say, I am stressed the fuck out.

And did I mention busy. Because, I’m busy.

After over two weeks of posting nothing, I am leaving you with this gem.

You’re welcome.

Sadly, I think I know how she feels.

So? What’s new with you?

Random Posts

• Bring on the Pregnant Lady Drugs!
• hangover hell
• Babies Come From Kisses

While I waited for my mom to return home from work, I paced the hall, wondering how I was going to make it through the party. The idea of staying home was out because what 12 year old wants to miss a chance to sleep over at a friends?

When my mom finally returned home from work I approached her with caution. I was so uncomfortable with announcing to her that I thought I had gotten my period, and so mortified that I just spewed out: ‘Mom! Something’s wrong with me! I’m bleeding, DOWN. THERE.” The poor lady hadn’t even had a chance to get herself situated as I bombarded her at the door.

She said nothing, but the blank look on her face said it all: I was dying!  My heart began to race as I pondered the thought of dying right. there.

(Now that I think back, I’m pretty sure she was mentally trying to understand what. the fuck. just happened. Also? I think she was trying to remember how old I was and? THE. FUCK!?)

As she removed her coat and slowly hung it up, I waited patiently for her to say something – ANYTHING – and as she processed what just went down she turned to me and said, “Well, I guess you got your period.”

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. Oh. My. God. My period!

She quietly walked towards the washroom and came back with a handful of huge! pink wrappers, “Here ya go!” she said as she handed them off like some sort of relay race as she headed to the kitchen.

I was so unbelievably happy to avoid any special mother-daughter bonding time over vaginal bleeding that I ran to my room as soon as those bulky over-sized crotch pillows hit my sweaty palms.

The sleep over party with off without a hitch even though I couldn’t keep my transformation to womanhood a secret from the girls. I was so embarrassed, but I had to weigh the options: keep quiet or face the possibility of waking up in a hail of blood spatter. There would have definitely been some hefty explaining to do.

Over the following summer months I was able to handle the other two visits from Aunt Flow rather easily. I was home everyday, so if something happened, I just shoved one of those gigantic pink crotch pillows between my knees thighs and try to walk properly.

Summer passed, and with the first day of grade six came a new challenge: being away from home all day, everyday. I remember the first day of school well; with all my new books and clean lined papers went a stack of humongous pink fluffy packages. Just in case.

The first couple weeks went by and everything was fine, but somewhere along the way I had removed those sanitary items to make way for something or other. Then It Happened.

I was sitting at my desk during Creative Writing, and suddenly, The Gush.

I thought I was dying. This is it! I’m dying! Right in the middle of 6th grade Creative Writing, I am going to keel over and kick the bucket!

I tightly squeezed my thighs together until they began to tingle from lack of circulation. I moved a little trying to cross my legs for a tighter seal.

Another gush.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Someone help me! I silently screamed. I better be dying! Please, just let me die!

I raised my hand as I sat awkwardly at my desk, leaning to one side with my legs woven into each other. I had to get out of there. Had to.

My teacher excused me to the washroom where I tried valiantly to wad the perfect imitation sanitary napkin out of the thinnest, roughest toilet paper known to man. With each yank on the toilet paper roll,  I cursed myself for taking those pads from my backpack.

I finished my handy work and tightly packed everything back into my forest green stretch leggings. I positioned my long white Blue Jays World Series sweatshirt just so – enough to make sure my butt was covered, then headed to the door. As I walked out the door, I was certain EVERYONE knew I had gotten my period.

Then. Again.

GUSH. GUSH. GUSH.

Oh. my. God!

I couldn’t contain the tears any longer and along with The Gushing came huge fat crocodile tears flowing freely and puddling on my sweatshirt.

I had to go home. I couldn’t bear to spend the rest of the day at school. There was no way I would make it through the day without being soaked head-to-toe.

Instead of returning to class, I went straight to the Principal’s office, tugging my sweater down as far as it would go.

I’m sick. I have to go home. I wailed to the secretary. I’m going to be sick everywhere!

Fearing she would be the recipient of a putrid pile of vomit to clean up, she shoved her waste basket in my hand and rushed me to the nearest chair. As soon as I was seated she wheeled around her heels and called my mother.

The only thought that filled my mind while I sat there was, am I going to leave a big bright red stain on this chair?

Eventually my mom came to get me and as she ushered me back to my class to gather my belongings, I glanced back to inspect the seat cushion for any evidence. Fro what I could see, there was nothing, but who knows what that secretary came across as she went back to collect her waste basket.

At home, I quickly changed into my comfy clothes, shoved a humongous Kotex between my knees thighs and laid on the couch, writhing in artificial pain. I spent the day watching game shows and soap operas while I nursed a fake illness only to head back to school the next day.

I swear to you, there were enough pads in my backpack from then on to accommodate my entire sixth grade class, should we all spontaneously bleed from our nether regions at the very same time.

:::

Today’s post – The Over Achiever Challenge: Your most embarrassing story, is part of a new writing initiative, {W}rite-of-Passage and is the brain child of The Mrs. Flinger . {W}rite-of-Passage is a new network of wonderfully talented bloggers who are trying to get back to the basics.

If you’re interested in reading the works of the other members,  please feel free to peruse the Mr. Linky which will be added to end of each post that is part of the {W}rite-of-Passage challenges. If you’re interested in becoming a member, click on one of the links provided above (hopefully that does the trick, otherwise, let me know in the comments and I’ll be sure to help figure it out.)

• Class of ‘99
• Love, Elsewhere
• Run Down